“I would insist on it. The pursuit of knowledge is never wasted, even when it involves improbable international tunneling.”
The morning unfolded in its comfortable rhythm. Geography gave way to French verbs, which Cassie attacked with the same fervor she brought to everything, her accent improving by increments that were visible mostly in the diminishing frequency with which Augusta winced.
Augusta caught sight of Hudson once, striding across the terrace with his steward, the two men deep in conversation. He did not look up. She found herself watching the straight line of his back until it disappeared around the corner of the house and then returned to Cassie’s translation exercise with more attention than it strictly warranted.
The day progressed.
Luncheon was an uneventful affair, with Cassie chattering about her lessons and Augusta offering the appropriate responses, the empty chair at the head of the table a silent reminder of Hudson’s absence. Estate business, the butler informed her when she inquired. The Duke had been called away to one of the tenant farms. He would return for dinner.
And so the days dragged on, the letter dancing unceasingly at the back of her mind. With one exception to the rule, one that she had come to enjoy, to expect.
As it was on a particular night, she had read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word of it when the knock came.
Hudson entered without waiting for a response, which was so typical of him that she could not even summon the energy to be affronted.
“Good evening,” she said, marking her place with a finger. “To what do I owe the honor?”
He crossed the room in that fluid, unhurried way of his and settled into the chair opposite hers, stretching out his long legs before him.
“Cassie mentioned you’re teaching her about mining,” he said simply.
“Among other things. She’s concerned about the territorial implications of underground excavation. I believe she’s drafting a letter to the Board of Trade as we speak.”
“Good. The government could use the exercise.”
They talked. It was the most remarkable thing about these nighttime visits, how easily conversation flowed once the barriers of daylight propriety had been set aside.
At some point, the distance between his chair and hers evaporated. His hand found hers. His thumb traced the line of her knuckles with a deliberation that made her breath catch. And then he was kissing her, and the conversation was effectively concluded for the evening.
It was different each time. That was the thing Augusta had not expected. The variety of it, the way each encounter seemed to uncover some new territory between them. Tonight, his kisses were slow, almost thoughtful, his hands cradling her face with a gentleness that contradicted everything she knew about his customary approach to the world.
She wound her fingers into his hair and felt him shudder against her, a reaction so visceral and unguarded that it sent a thrill through her that had nothing to do with propriety and everything to do with the power of reducing him to a state of coherent desire.
They moved to the bed because beds existed for a reason, and that reason was apparently the configuration of limbs and intentions currently underway. His weight above her, the solid heat of him through the thin fabric of her nightgown, his mouth on her throat…
Augusta arched into him with an abandon that would have scandalized every drawing room in Mayfair and found she could not bring herself to care. His hand slid up her thigh, beneath the hem of her gown, and the sound she made was not one she had ever produced in the presence of another human being.
It was Hudson who stopped. His hand stilled. His forehead pressed against hers, his breathing ragged, and she felt the effort it cost him, the sheer, physical discipline of restraint.
“We can’t,” he said, his voice rough. “Not… not entirely. Not without consequences neither of us is prepared for.”
She knew he was right. The arithmetic was painfully simple: pleasure now, potential disaster later. It was the responsible choice. The adult choice.
It was also, Augusta reflected as she lay beneath him with her heart hammering and her body thrumming with frustrated want, spectacularly inconvenient.
“Very well,” she said, and was absurdly proud of how steady her voice emerged.
Hudson pressed another languorous kiss to her throat. “That is not to say that we cannot do other things.”
And then his fingers moved from caressing her thighs to slipping inside her, and she gasped, clutching at his hair as he started moving them gently.
“Hud—Hudson!”
His lips found her throat again, the spot that had her turning into a puddle of warmth. “Let go for me, Augusta. Let me hear you.”
Her moans reached a wanton height she did not know existed as he pumped his fingers inside her, pressing against that sensitive spot.
Three nights later, she found him in the library.
